Promise Kept
by Cael Fenton
Summary: Scenes from ObiWan's life post TPM. Not as Obicentric as it sounds.
1. Grey Ashes

**Author's notes**: This is a sequel of sorts to **Father**. It deals with short scenes from Obi-Wan's life on this plane and beyond. Chapter I is immediately following **Father**; Chapter II is a scene set between TPM and AotC and Chapter III is my version of a snippet of Ep III. Chapter IV is an angsty Obi-on-Tatooine; Epilogue is set after the events of RotJ.

**Disclaimer**: In order of appearance, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn, the Jedi Council, Shmi Skywalker, Captain Needa, Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker are property of LucasFilm. Thame Cerulian as well as Qui-Gon's line in para. 2 are taken from _Legacy Of The Jedi: A Clone Wars Novel_ by Jude Watson. Ilum is from _Path To Truth_, by Jude Watson. In order of appearance: draigons, Tahl, Bant, Garen, Reeft, Clee, Siri and Clat'Ha are also from Jude Watson's work for LucasBooks.

**PROMISE KEPT**

**Prologue**

_Obi-Wan, promise me…Promise me you will train the boy._

_He—is the Chosen One. He will bring balance. Train him._

_Yes, Master._

**Chapter I: Grey Ashes**

Obi-Wan sat silently before the pyre. It had taken all night, and so his first act as Anakin's unofficial Master was to send his new Padawan for breakfast. Yes, it had taken that long for the centre of his universe to burn, and he had done nothing to stop it. Now he sat before it, now that it was a little pile of grey ashes and pale shards of bone. All night long, he had wondered why he wasn't gibbering like a madman and jumping on the pyre and holding on to the only family he'd ever…everything he'd ever…And the answer came to him, of course—because Qui-Gon wouldn't have wanted him to.

He couldn't place exactly when Qui-Gon had said it—_You will be a great Jedi Knight, Obi-Wan Kenobi. I know that with every breath, with every beat of my heart. You will make me proud I was there at your beginnings. If you do have a flaw, perhaps it is simply this: You wish to please me too much_.

Qui-Gon had wanted him to train Anakin, and by all the little gods, he would do it, if he died trying. And if he was fated to…die trying, he would go out as he'd come in, fighting all the way.

He thought of Anakin. Of his sun-bleached hair, his shaded blue eyes, the things he'd seen, that no nine-year old, that no one, should ever have to see. And despair rose, choking him. Obi-Wan stood and walked to the window. He watched the clouds in the blue sky, and the people strolling across Theed Plaza. There were birds too. So many birds, some mere specks against the dazzling white clouds, others…Others seemed close enough for him to reach out and touch. He couldn't help wondering where the white birds were. Those white birds released late last night, their wings beating luminous silver strokes in the purplish dark. He wished they would come back. If they came back, he could hold them in his hand. He could hold them and touch their bright feathers with a tentative, trembling hand, and he could pretend, if only for a fleeting moment, that they would stay, forever.

But he shouldn't wish that. For sooner or later, they would fly away again, and he could not follow. Unable to fly, he would have to watch them, as they became ever smaller and smaller against the backdrop of eternity.

Looking at the birds, he thought of Anakin, and of what might have been. Then he wept—great, aching, convulsive, dry sobs, because he had no more tears left.

He didn't want to know how long he stood there crying. Long enough for him to be aware—that he had been unaware—of a small, intense presence at the entrance of the crematorium. He knew who it was. _Not him…anyone but him_…Guilty, he tried to stop…But he couldn't stop the animal sounds of agony that left him shaking like a palsied geriatric.

'Master Obi-Wan,' whispered the boy, as though he were interrupting a time-honoured sacred ritual. 'Obi-Wan, it's okay to cry.' He put his arms around Obi-Wan's waist and buried his face in the russet fall of his robe. The young man turned, and his face was a sight to behold. His cheeks were flushed pink, with reddish blotches, and his usually brilliant sea-blue eyes were dull and bleary. 'You—' he gasped, breathing ragged and laboured.

Expecting a reprimand for being too forward, Anakin ventured timidly, 'Obi-Wan?'

Gulping air noisily like a drowning man, his chest heaving, Obi-Wan tried again. 'F-from now on, you—' He stopped to lick his lips. 'You address me as _Master_.'

Uncertain, Anakin nodded assent slowly. Then he noticed Obi-Wan's lower lip twitching. And burst into a fit of helpless giggles. He didn't see the pain in the smile Obi-Wan attempted for his benefit. Obi-Wan wiped his swollen, blotchy face and knelt to look Anakin in the eye. 'Now, you go…See Padmé.' This time the smile, though still painful, was genuine.

Anakin smiled too. 'Thank you, Master,' he replied. And he was gone, a bright blur, somewhere outside. Obi-Wan watched him go. Then he returned to his place by the pyre and picked up the tiny weapon he had left there. He hefted it between his fingers, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was not an energy weapon. It was not even a shiv. The braid signifying the status of Jedi Padawan had been severed in the same way, using the same means, for millenia. The weapon was one of only a couple dozen, a bone dagger that was many times older than Master Yoda.

Obi-Wan toyed with it for a bit, testing its point on his thumb. Feeling rebellious, he even sliced some hair off his braid, and watched the auburn strands fall into his lap, glowing red-gold where they caught the tremulous sunlight. Then, as though afraid of getting caught doing a duty he should have completed hours ago, he quickly shoved the knife deep into a crevice of his tunic and brushed the coppery strands of his hair onto the floor. There they gleamed with a fiery lustre, despite his attempts to scuff dust over them.

He walked back to the window. A light wind had sprung up, caressing his cheek and stirring his short hair. Obi-Wan held out a hand, his fingers curling slightly, as though the breeze were a corporeal thing he could hold. Defying him, it snatched up his braid and flung it back against his chest.

Obi-Wan allowed himself to remember…

They were on Ilum, after Obi-Wan had completed building his lightsaber. As they strolled through the lower meadows, Qui-Gon had told him of the Council's request that they return to Coruscant immediately. 'But,' he continued, a twinkle threatening existence in his sapphire eyes, 'We will stay here. And we will enjoy ourselves to the best of our ability.' Holding up a huge hand to forestall questions, the Jedi Master added, 'No lessons, no mission, nothing.' Then his voice softened, 'Now…that…you have a real lightsaber. I don't know when we can have fun again.'

Even at that tender age of thirteen, Obi-Wan had known the unspoken words—_Or how long our time together will last_. The life of a Jedi was hard, and dangerous. His throat constricted.

Open-mouthed, he sputtered a little. He'd heard of Master Jinn's notorious defiance, of course, but he'd never actually seen it in action…

'Master, what if…the Council…Contacts us?'

Qui-Gon gave a puckish grin. 'Either we tell them we can't find the Crystal Cave, or…' His grin widened, 'Or we don't answer.'

'But…but—'

'Ssh. Enough questions. Now, will you walk with me, Padawan?'

'Gladly, Master.'

They walked a little in companionable silence, feeling the melting snow slosh beneath their boots, until Obi-Wan said, 'I love the wind.'

With the simplicity of one used to bareness, Qui-Gon sat down on the grass, stretching his long legs before him. 'Mmm. So do I, Padawan. In fact, right now, I'm thinking that I love only one thing in this universe more than I love the wind on the meadows of Ilum—or any wind, for that matter.'

'What's that, Master? It must be something really, really special, that you love it so.'

'Indeed it is, Padawan. Indeed it is.' He shut his eyes and tugged his long hair free of its clasp. It streamed out behind him like a kind of halo. 'Right now I'm thinking that the one thing I love the most in the universe, more than Corellian ale, more than the wind, is my Padawan.'

He took out the little white knife again, and raised it to the spot just behind his ear. Just as quickly, he changed his mind and put it back into his tunic. He imagined that Qui-Gon was standing right in front of him, comfortingly solid, whole, his blue eyes just the way they should be and not cloudy with death. 'You know, Master,' he said, 'I was so happy right then that I missed an extremely important part of that conversation. Now that I recall it…You liked—You like Corellian ale?' He shook his head. 'Never knew you had it in you to…appreciate that disgusting stuff, Master. I'd rather take muja juice any day…'

He could've sworn he heard a soft, familiar chuckle…But no. The birds were gone, and he could not wish them back, no matter how hard he tried. He tugged his braid. 'I always imagined you'd be around to cut this. So I told the old troll, let me do it myself. It was nice of him, Master, but now I find I can't—'

The breeze suddenly did something no non-corporeal entity had the right to do. It lifted his braid playfully, and, next thing Obi-Wan knew, the braid's silky length was twined roughly about his throat. He pulled it free and carefully arranged it on his shoulder while saying petulantly, 'I never heard of a Jedi Master who bullied his Padawan even after he became one with the Force.'

Sighing, he took the knife out. But he _couldn't_ do it. He tried to sneak it back unnoticed by whom?—He wasn't sure, but then his braid smacked him in the face. He ground his teeth and cursed the ancient Jedi who came up with the idea of Padawan braids.

This time, he _knew_ he heard a chuckle.

For the final time, he lifted the dagger, the cruel, pitiless, bone-white dagger, whose starkness mocked him. How he hated it. He felt its weight, and felt the weight of a limp body cooling in his arms, the weight of a still face washed with his tears. _Get off your little fence, Kenobi. Enough brooding_…And in one quick movement, he did it. And he felt the coolness of the ivory blade kiss his scalp. And the long, soft, ginger braid fell, slim and delicate and dignified.

With Jedi reflexes, Obi-Wan caught it before it struck the floor. Straightening, he felt a swiftly passing warmth stroke him, and then disappear. He felt too, rather than heard, the rumbling cadence of a deep voice—

_Knock 'em out, my brave Knight._


	2. River Stone

**Disclaimer**: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm.

**Chapter II: River Stone**

For the sixth time in as many minutes, Anakin Skywalker tripped while performing the most basic kata, the Draigon in Flight. A deep rosy flush coloured his round cheeks. He was embarrassed, and he wasn't enjoying it at all. 'I'm sorry, Master. I don't know what's come over me today—'

Obi-Wan touched Anakin's hair softly. The eleven-year old would have resented anyone else taking this liberty, but from Obi-Wan, it felt like a verbal accolade. 'But I do. It's your mother's birthday.'

The look of stunned surprise on Anakin's face was, in short, priceless. Obi-Wan fought to hold in a laugh as Anakin asked, with some measure of hurt indignation and violated privacy, 'How did you know?'

Obi-Wan couldn't help himself. 'A Master knows, Ani. We see _all_—' He was almost choked with laughter. Anakin did not find it funny at all. He folded his arms across his chest, and the look on his face could only have been described as a pout. 'Master, get serious. How did you know?'

Obi-Wan sobered. 'You told me, Padawan. Last year…' He fell silent. A question, begging an answer, rang in his mind—Why wasn't Anakin going to tell him this year? He stared at his Padawan, willing Anakin to answer his unspoken question.

Anakin's lower lip trembled. 'I'm sorry, Master,' he repeated. 'I was just trying to…forget it all. It's hard when the others keep reminding me of…where I came from, and…' His breath hitched. 'And when I think of my mom—She's a slave on Tatooine, and…and—How would you feel, Master, if Qui-Gon was being ordered around, _owned_ by some ruthless slave-driver who could sell him, or beat him to pulp, or, or…rape him, any time they wanted. How would you feel if he had to carry stuff three times his weight, far, far away from you, and you couldn't do anything about it, or worse, you were enjoying yourself?' His voice rose to a shout. 'How would you feel, Master!'

Obi-Wan turned away quickly, but not before Anakin noticed the tears quivering on his lashes. When he spoke, his voice was frosty. 'I'm sorry if I brought up unpleasant memories for you, Anakin. If you would like to have the rest of the day free—'

Anakin couldn't bear hearing the hurt Obi-Wan was trying so hard to conceal. 'Master, don't!' he begged. 'I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry—I wasn't thinking, Master!'

Obi-Wan did not turn back. 'Evidently,' he replied. Behind him, Anakin choked back a sob. 'Please, Obi-Wan! First, I left my mother behind on Tatooine. Then Master Qui-Gon was murdered. Not you too, Master. Not you too, please. You're the only one I have left. I would never want to hurt you, Master!'

And Obi-Wan turned back. His eyes were very bright. 'I guess today is a…very…special day. For both of us.'

'R-really? What day is it for you, Master?'

Obi-Wan smiled a brief, achingly sweet smile. 'Today is the third day of the seventh month.' He put his hand inside a deep pocket on his tunic and drew it out, along with something small clenched in his fist. 'Today is the day Qui-Gon Jinn accepted me as his Padawan Learner, fourteen years ago. He gave me this.' Obi-Wan opened his hand. Lying on his palm was an ebony river stone, black on black, with shimmering crimson streaks darting like snakes across its smooth surface. It wasn't particularly flashy or beautiful or attractive, but oh, when it caught the light…When it caught the dim, inadequate light of their quarters and turned it into something exquisite, Anakin's heart warmed. And quite aside from the subtle, elusive, peculiar beauty that belonged to that stone alone, there was the fact that it was radiant with Obi-Wan's Force presence. It had such a strong imprint of Obi-Wan Kenobi on it that the boy knew immediately and instinctively that the stone was something his Master had held and hugged and slept and dreamed on and carried for longer than Anakin had been alive.

'It's a very special stone,' breathed the boy reverently. 'Master Qui-Gon must have been a really good teacher.'

'Oh Anakin, you have no idea. If only I could—'

'Because he taught you, and you're a great one.' Without stopping to register to effect of those words on his Master, Anakin went on, 'He thinks so too, you know. He's so proud of you, Master. He tells me that—At night, and when he and I hear you crying sometimes—'

Obi-Wan felt a little dazed. He was so absolutely shell-shocked that he didn't hear the last two words of Anakin's sentence, which was probably just as well. 'He talks to you…' he moaned hoarsely.

Anakin looked alarmed at this unexpected turn of events. 'Sometimes,' he hastened to add. Then he said solemnly, 'He really would love to talk to you, Master. It upsets him, that you don't want to talk to him anymore. He tells me he wishes you would listen. Not that he blames you,' put in the boy quickly. 'He knows it hurts you.'

Obi-Wan's shoulders were shaking. Was he so transparent to his dead Master—and a mere child? And—Was it true that he didn't want to hear Qui-Gon speak to him? 'Oh Force,' he whispered. 'Oh sweet merciful Force.' In sudden anger, he turned on his Padawan. 'How can he say that? He's dead. And even if…you can…hear him, how can he say I don't want to hear him? My Master…' He trailed off, angry, hotly guilty, filled with self-doubt.

'He talks to me! If only you'd listen…He's here with us now! Can't you hear him? Listen…'

And in spite of himself, Obi-Wan fell silent, and listened.

Next to him, Anakin shifted uneasily. 'You still don't believe me, Master,' he chided softly, his eyes closed. 'It's not enough to listen. You have to want Qui-Gon to speak to you with all your heart and soul.'

Obi-Wan didn't respond. But Anakin felt him find his centre, breathe, and then felt the bright flex in the Force as Obi-Wan poured everything he had—all the fierce strength of his heart, all his grief and loss and joy and meaning, and all his great love for his Master, into just listening. He felt, too, the sharp intake of breath as Qui-Gon responded lovingly to his Padawan's gesture of faith.

Obi-Wan listened, and he heard—

_When you need me, listen. Listen to the sound of the silence. Listen for the light. Listen…inside. And this is my promise to you: I will come._

_I will come to you when you need me._

Anakin opened his eyes. Obi-Wan would be alright. Their Master watched over him, even when he didn't know it. And at night, when the demons came, Qui-Gon guarded his Padawan jealously.

Just then, Obi-Wan opened his eyes. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you for everything.' He was looking at Anakin, but the boy wasn't sure whether Obi-Wan was talking to him or to Qui-Gon. And in the end, did it matter? He had helped his Master.

'Come, Padawan. I think that's enough of the Draigon in Flight for today. There's a place I need to show you—I've never been there myself, but we should go there more often…' He stood, shrugged on his cloak and strode out of the room. Anakin followed him, curious.

A five-minute walk through the corridors later, they arrived at a small, inconspicuous room near the meditation cubicles. As they stepped through the low, arched doorway, Obi-Wan said, his voice bouncing off the curved walls, 'This is the Room of Remembrance.'

The room was circular, the walls carved out of warm pinkish stone. Circular pillars supported the ceiling. On every vertical surface were carved thousands of names. Yet they were not crammed together. Each name had sufficient space to fill, so that the eye could absorb the name of each Jedi who had become one with the Force. Beside each name was a small, simple carving, sometimes a picture, sometimes a message, to sum up the meaning of the life of the dead, when they had dwelt within the walls of that Temple.

'Wow. Do they have the names of _all_ the dead Jedi?' asked Anakin in awe.

'No. Just for the past two hundred years,' replied Obi-Wan. 'Qui-Gon's is somewhere…here.' He stopped by the name, carved in flowing script, on the tan stone—_Qui-Gon Jinn_. Next to it was carved a phrase. It was in Qui-Gon's native language, but Obi-Wan knew what it meant—_Beauty can be found in the least likely of places_. He smiled sadly. It had been the meaning of his Master's life.

Together, Obi-Wan and Anakin bowed their heads at the grave of their shared Master.


	3. Crimson Length

**Disclaimer**: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm.

**Chapter III: Crimson Length**

Obi-Wan faced Anakin from behind his raised lightsaber. Oh, he'd done it before, of course, but never when the weapon was set on full power. Heck, there were so many things he was doing recently that he had never tried before. He wondered, not without bitterness, whether he should thank his former Padawan for that. _Dammit Kenobi, it's not his fault! Neither is it Qui-Gon's. It's yours. Yours, yours, yours alone. All your fault._

Qui-Gon's death—his fault. Not fast enough, not strong enough, never good enough. The dozens who fell on Geonosis—his fault. Too stupid, too slow, always, always too late. Tahl, Bant, Garen, Reeft, Clee, Siri—his fault. _Let's see. Broke my ankle—not fast enough, again. Check. Next. Hmmm. Didn't see the darkness in my Padawan. Check. Didn't want to see the darkness in him, or in me. Check. Didn't train him well enough. Check. Didn't keep my promise to Qui-Gon. Check. All-round general ineptness. Check._

'Come with me, Pada—Anakin. Come with me, and I'll do my utmost to make it like it's never been. Please, my Padawan.'

The constant sneer which seemed now to be Anakin's normal expression became a predatory smirk. 'First of all, Master Kenobi, it's _Darth Vader_ to you, and to everyone else. Second, you know—probably better than anyone else does—that it's too late to reverse your mistakes, Obi-Wan. And thirdly, I have a deal to cut you…You'd do well to inspect what I have to offer, Master Kenobi. Captain Needa?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Bring the little mine-rat out here.'

'Yes, my lord Vader.'

They brought her out. Her red hair had been shaved, there was a number tattooed onto her temple, there were dark smudges around her eyes and she stank like a denizen of Coruscant's lower levels. Despite everything, Obi-Wan recognised her.

'Clat'Ha? Sweet Force, is it really you?' He suddenly realised that he would have no choice in the 'deal' Anakin—Darth Vader—was cutting him. As a Jedi, his duty was to preserve life, even if it wasn't the life of a friend he had known since before Qui-Gon became his Master. He'd seen the cost of his mistakes. The price was staggering. It was killing him. He'd counted it in his friends' lives—Jedi he'd known since before he could walk. He'd counted it in civilians' lives. _They pay for what you did wrong. Your damn foolery caused them to die cursing your name—and screaming in agony._

Clat'Ha didn't have the energy to conceal the hope flickering in her eyes. 'Obi,' she coughed 'you better ge'me out o'here. Or I'll publicly broadcast the holo I 'appen to have o'you in your underpants twenn'-fi' years ago.' She grinned, but that was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain.

Obi-Wan felt it like a dagger twisting his insides. 'I will,' he promised softly. 'Even if I have to die first. Even if…Anakin has to die first.'

Anakin, who had silent throughout this exchange, responded at this, his eyes glinting dangerously with barely suppressed rage, his breath coming in low snarls. 'I never mattered to you, Master, did I? Every time you had the chance to get rid of me, you leapt to it like trout to a fly. The first time you addressed me as your Padawan, you told me to get breakfast—so you could be alone, nursing your own private little grief. I always had to be completely open with you, but you got to keep secrets, you _hoarded_ them like your private playthings!' He swung his lightsaber downwards so that it just scorched the skin on Clat'Ha's throat. 'I'm going to kill her Master. Right after I make her explore every level of hell. And do you know why?'

'I certainly don't. Why?'

'Because I wish to cause you pain, Master Kenobi.'

Obi-Wan finally understood that the boy with bright blonde hair, the boy who would give, withholding nothing, without a second thought, the boy who would love unreservedly, the boy who had once told him it was okay to cry, the boy who shone so brightly and purely with the light of the Force, that boy was gone. That boy's life had been brutally snuffed out in a Tusken camp on Tatooine three years ago.

_Brutally snuffed out?…three years ago? Are you sure of that? Or has he been dying slowly, a little bit every day, since you replaced Qui-Gon as his Master?_ Obi-Wan closed his eyes and reached the Force for guidance. Anakin watched him, and so taken was that he let his guard down.

A feral scream echoed around the cavern as Clat'Ha twisted Anakin's lightsaber toward her chest with superhuman strength and impaled herself on its brilliant crimson length. Anakin froze in shock. Then, recovering, he snatched back his 'saber and kicked Clat'Ha toward Obi-Wan. He dropped to one knee beside her. She smiled faintly at him. Obi-Wan couldn't begin to imagine the effort it cost her. ''m gonna haunt you forever, Oafy.'

He pressed her head against his chest, whispering his denial, refusing to accept that, once again, he was too late. Her last breath went out softly on his cheek. And then everything about her seemed to diminish, because she wasn't there any more. Very gently, he closed her eyes.

He rose, and if he had expected any remorse to be evident in Anakin, he was disappointed. There was no doubt in him any more. He knew what to do: destroy the abomination he had created, the abomination who looked like his Padawan and acted like a Sith. But his heart cried out as he raised his lightsaber to do battle with the young man he had once loved as son.


	4. Silvery Beauty

**Disclaimer**: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm. 

**Chapter IV: Silvery Beauty**

Obi-Wan Kenobi blinked and rubbed his eyes with the heel of one callused hand. His eyes were itching with tiredness—it must be very late. Carefully, he shut Thame Cerulian's book of Force contemplations and crossed the floor of his hovel to return the book to its place in his chest. As he was closing the heavy wooden lid, something in that battered old box caught his eye, glinting in the dim yellow fluorescence of the room's solitary glowrod. It was an aurum medal he'd won thirty years ago, during the annual senior Padawan sparring competition.

To be precise, what had caught his attention was his reflection on the back of the medal. Stooped as he was over the box containing most of his material possessions, Obi-Wan froze for a long moment. Then—with hands that, he noted with discomfit, were creased and discoloured despite being not yet in their fifth decade—he lifted the yellow disc out and rubbed it gently with his thumb. How many years, he wondered.

Obi-Wan frowned. He hadn't exactly kept track of the time. Surely it had been nine, nine standard years since he carried the infant Luke Skywalker to Tatooine.

Or had it been twelve? Twelve standard years since the Clone Wars began. That had been a very, very long time ago, a lifetime ago. Maybe…maybe it was even longer ago. Maybe it was twenty-two years. What a very long twenty-two years it had been! The two and twenty cycles since his Padawan braid fell from behind his right ear, sliced by a cold blade of polished bone as ruthlessly as it could have been by a blood-red saber of hungry heat.

When had he become an old man?

The scratched, spotty surface of the aurum medal was kind to him, he knew. It smoothed the lines of care on his brow, erased all the years. But he had to know the truth. Obi-Wan fell to his knees next to the chest and searched desperately for a real mirror. None were forthcoming. He picked up the medal up again and examined the face in its gleaming golden surface. Its hair was a faded dirty-blonde streaked with silver. Creases around the forehead, the eyes, the thin mouth. A ragged ginger-grey beard straggled tiredly along its chin and jawline. And the eyes…Once, long ago, his Master had said, 'Poetry'll be written about those eyes, my Obi-Wan.' Once, long ago, but not anymore, certainly. Those eyes had since faded to dull blue-grey, flatter than the undulating dunes outside his door.

He smiled to himself. _Vanity, thy name is Jedi! The young man I was is dead. He can't come back._

And who would mourn that young man? The old man's neighbours, the krayt dragons, the Tuskens, the Jawas? How could they, when they had never even set eyes on the young man? As far as he knew, only one in all the galaxy missed those sun-flecked eyes, that quick laugh, that ready smile—himself.

'Bant? Dead. Garen? Dead. Reeft? Dead. Anakin? Not dead, but might as well be. Siri? Dead. Kit? Dead. Soara? Dead. Master? Dead, dead, dead…' His voice was harsh from long lack of use. Obi-Wan stumbled out the door and up the crest of the nearest dune. He knelt down, running his fingers through the usually tan-coloured sand that, by some trick of the starlight, glimmered now with silvery beauty.

'Where are you all,' he muttered. Obi-Wan suddenly swept his hand upwards, scattering the argent sand in a swift-falling cloud of glittering specks, like dust motes in a sunbeam. 'C'mon, c'mon…Maybe I'se should take a walk. I'se sure t'find them if I just keep walking,' he mumbled, abandoning his Coruscant accent in favour of his native dialect. He drew out his lightsaber and stared at it with something akin to disgust. 'Jedi weapon,' he hissed between clenched teeth. 'And the Jedi are dead, all dead. Died by my hand. Except for one—hiding in the swamps of Dagobah. And the other? A bluidy crazy old man in the desert…I shouldn't carry this…I'm defiling the weapon of a Jedi—' But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to fling it away into the dunes.

'Padawan?'

'Oh, kriffsake!' The expletive burst from him with feeling. Not as strong, perhaps, as a phrase or two in Huttese, but still, it was very satisfying to swear at Qui-Gon.

'Why do you do this to yourself, Obi-Wan?'

'I'm having a conversation with a figment of my imagination.' Obi-Wan chuckled briefly, convinced that he had at last lost his tenuous grip on reality. 'Though why I should imagine _you_ here, I really cannot say. But I'll tell you anyway . It's…because…It's for all the promises I made, that I didn't keep. For all the dreams I was entrusted with, that I shattered. For all the hope that was invested in me, that I betrayed. For all the light I was given, that I doomed to darkness.

'And you…You always loved someone better than I. Tahl, Xanatos, _Anakin_. I always wasn't good enough!'

It would have sounded petulant and, yes, even childish if he hadn't known that Qui-Gon knew it was absolutely true. Obi-Wan tried to tell himself that it served Qui-Gon right. His Master absolutely deserved to feel as painfully bewildered as he looked.

'But…Oh my Padawan—sweet Force, didn't you ever know—I _love_ you. Gods, what have I done—You're comparing yourself with Xanatos! Others have had my love too, but only you, my last Padawan, my son, you have completed me. You were my life—More than that, you are my legacy, and what a great, proud legacy I left!' The image of Obi-Wan's Master reached out a massive hand to touch the old man's face. His fingers left behind tracks of warmth on cheeks Obi-Wan hadn't even realised were half-frozen. Tatooine's night was as chilly as its day was hot.

Gentle as that affectionate gesture had been, it was enough to shatter the icy armour Obi-Wan had erected around his heart—a crushing blow. Obi-Wan turned and fled, and if he thought at all about what he was doing, he heard only one voice speaking one word—'_away_'. He ran down the dune and he ran into the night, until Qui-Gon, shining softly on the sands, could see him no more. He didn't run gracefully and he didn't run quietly. Obi-Wan ran, and suddenly he realised that the loud, heavy pants pursuing him were his own. Obi-Wan ran, his boots striking hard on the rocks, sending great puffs of desert sand up flying, sparkling.

He kept up the same pace for hours. Obi-Wan's entire world became those mahogany boots. He shut out the potshots the Sand People took at him, the rats and sand-lizards that scattered before him. He shut out the biting sand on his skin and the whistling hiss of the wind.

And most of all, he shut out the memories.

Obi-Wan's last sentient, self-aware, conscious thought was _I run. I survive_. After that, it was only the easy, uncomplicated, simple matter of putting that boot down in front the other—and the slightly giddy lightness in his head, and the exhilarating freedom. It was so beautiful, though of course he was, at that point, unable to appreciate the exquisite…Unable to appreciate the exquisite…

Then his leg began to hurt. He cried out in shock as the pain brought him back to excruciating self-awareness. It was his left thigh, of course it had to be his left thigh…He valiantly attempted to go on. And less than a minute later, he stumbled and fell violently to the ground.

He rolled over so that he was lying on his back facing the stars. Obi-Wan lay there, breathing in dust, and watching the stars. Slowly, unconsciously, his hand crept to his leg, and when he realised what he was doing, he found that he couldn't stop himself. Fascinated, he explored the twelve-year old scar on his thigh—_What are you doing? Stop_…He didn't want to remember the day he had gotten that scar. He didn't want to remember anything. He didn't want to feel…

He should get up, get up and continue running. He should get up and ignore the voice that asked, cruel and merciless, what he was running from. But if he got up, his leg would hurt worse. And then he would remember—He shuddered—he would remember _everything_. And if he stayed where he was, he would still remember that day on—No! He shook his head.

No…

Obi-Wan forced himself up on his hands and knees. He busied himself with looking at the stars, identifying the constellations. If he squinted really hard, the Rhel-Virgia cluster there looked like a tall figure and shorter one. Perhaps a father and his son. Obi-Wan tried to imagine what they were doing together.

After a round of strenuous back-to-back missions, Qui-Gon had requested a week's sabbatical for Obi-Wan. They were on the privileged upper levels of Coruscant, where the general populace was wealthy and happy. The females of this particular group were especially liberal in their coy, half-teasing shows of…interest…toward the young Jedi. Females of all ages and species. Following an unusually unmistakable and affectionate display of female attention by an attractive Twi'lek teenager, Obi-Wan said to Qui-Gon, 'Master, I love being handsome.'

The reply was quick and customarily witty. 'You inherited it from me, my young Padawan.'

'How could I have, Master? You're not my father, unless there is a huge conspiracy going on here—'

His Master had placed both huge hands on the apprentice's shoulders and said quietly, 'I hope not, Obi-Wan. There is more than one way of being a father than simply joshing a girl…It's much, much harder, but there is no other job I would rather do.'

Obi-Wan realised he was crying. 'Oh, Master…' And then he really started crying. 'Please, oh, please, stop. Sweet Force…it hurts, goddammit, it _hurts_!' He cried like a baby and his tears ran into the sand, leaving dark patches which lingered and then vanished.

And somewhere in time, somewhere in the Force, a Jedi Master felt Obi-Wan's anguish, and the Master's heart broke for his Padawan. But the Force—or fate, or destiny—was kind, or perhaps it was simple the result of running dozens of klicks in the desert. Whatever it was, Qui-Gon was grateful that Obi-Wan was blissfully unconscious by the time the earliest light of morning's twin suns had painted the horizon with sepia-veined crimson. Unseen, unheard by all save himself, he knelt on the cool sand and twined ghostly fingers in Obi-Wan's hair. He spoke then, and if the krayt dragons heard it, they dismissed it as merely the wind's lonely mournful keening.

'Who killed you, my Obi-Wan?' His voice faltered. A great sorrow stirred, and every living creature in the Jundland Wastes, even those Force-blind as a wall, felt a strange disquiet.

'Who closed your eyes?'


	5. Epilogue

**Disclaimer**: All recognisable characters are property of LucasFilm.

**Epilogue**

Fireworks lit the dark above Endor's forest moon. Scarlet, purple, gold, they blossomed in the night like exotic flowers. Below them, the Rebel Alliance was celebrating its victory over the Empire. Radiant, their joy, their smiles, the gentle tinkle of Mon Calmarian laughter, the harsh barking of the occasional Wookiee, the genial chuckles of the numerous drunken Corellians, even, here and there, a sprinkling of the cultured accent of Core World aristocracy—Light streamed through the eaves of the forest.

On the edge of it all, where the laughter was faint and the light was dimmed, where the slightest spark would outshine the cold stars, the body of an armoured warrior burned. And a fair-haired young man watched the orange flames rise. Luke Skywalker lifted his gaze and saw that his father's funeral pyre was not the only light outside the celebration behind him. Beyond the funerary pyre, Obi-Wan, Yoda and Anakin glimmered, casting back the shadow of the night. Luke smiled at them, and the three smiled back. Yet between them rose the fierce, hungry fire, and there lay the icy black of Darth Vader's armour.

On the opposite side, Obi-Wan watched his young charge. No, he corrected himself. Luke was no longer his responsibility. He was an old man, and very tired. _Tired? You're dead. Cold and dead_…And the Force called. The sound of it filled him with longing. He yearned to let it speak to him and soothe him, yearned to touch the Light that was so close…But surely he must stay here. Surely there was another job, another task, another duty…There was always duty, and always not enough time.

The Force called, and it was so very tempting. There were no more barriers, for the fire and the ice were behind him. All he need do was let himself go—He couldn't. The Dark might have been defeated, but how could he rest when there were so many around the galaxy who still suffered? It was unjust.

A low voice murmured, 'Define _unjust_.' The one he had been waiting for came to him. Like a sudden flame, or a falcon stooped, or lightning leaping, he came—Obi-Wan knew him. It was not so much his quiet dignity that marked him. It was the sense of rightness Obi-Wan felt with him. They belonged together. And Obi-Wan had been waiting for him, though he hadn't realised it until now.

'Master.'

'You fought so much darkness alone, my Obi-Wan. Forgive me…'

Obi-Wan waited until his voice was steady before speaking. 'There is nothing to forgive, Master.'

'Look into the flames, Obi-Wan. Tell me what you see.'

Obi-Wan hesitated. 'I—I see myself. I'm an old man, Master, and I look it.'

'Padawan, a man,' Qui-Gon said gently, 'may call a star a star and explain that it is really a large ball of gas moving along a usually fixed course that can be determined using stellar cartography. Similarly, I might say that you were a lump of more or less solid matter charged with, among other things, that kinetic energy called life. Furthermore, you are gifted with a measure of sentience. But I might add that to me, Obi-Wan Kenobi is beautiful beyond compare, and is the dearest to me in all the universe. When I look into the flames, Obi-Wan, I don't see an old man. I see a glorious, _luminous_ being. And I see the stars. They call to us—'

Obi-Wan smiled. The light of it reached his eyes. 'I was wrong when I said there was nothing to forgive. I do forgive you, Master. Where you go, I will follow.'

'Shall we follow the starlight together?'

'Anakin?'

'You saved him, Obi-Wan. I am proud.'

Anakin's body had long since turned to a pile of ash. Luke had gone. But had a Force-sensitive been there, they would have heard a silvery peal of youthful laughter—surely it couldn't have come from that old man?

'Promise kept, Master.'


End file.
